Another Thing to Regret
by Fluffy Darkness
Summary: A collection of sort-of-connected oneshots concerning the romance between Blackwall and Inquisitor Katari Adaar. I will add more from time to time, more characters to enter the fray.
1. Pillar of Strength

_Maker, she's tall,_ was the first thought that ran through Blackwall's head when he met the Herald of Andraste. He chose not to voice this thought, of course, for her scowl made him certain that she would not receive the remark in good humor.

Upon reaching Haven, he quickly noted the lack of other qunari and was glad for his earlier silence. She towered over every member of the inquisition except for the Iron Bull and surely heard the remark on a near-daily basis.

There was a hardness about her, encompassed in every facet of her being. She was a brutal force in battle, refusing to back down in the face of any foe, standing tall and imposing. Then, to witness her simply disappear from view, to know that a menace of her caliber stalked the battlefield unseen, that struck even greater fear into her enemies. Off the battlefield, she used scowls and sneers to silence those who would argue with her, those who would maintain that she was the Herald of Andraste, and the daggers she glared at politicians (and Vivienne) were as sharp as the ones she used to stab bandits. Her pride kept her back straight and her chin up, and it kept her from falling until it stifled her common sense and nearly lost her an arm, and it had begot an argument that…started everything. Those for whom she reserved her smiles and laughter were few, and, eventually, he counted himself among them.

It was strange, the moment he realized that he was attracted to her. She was nothing like the skirts he used to chase in his youth, the tiny hourglass figures with alabaster skin, flowing hair, and coy smiles, all soft and sweet. "Exotic" was a word that encompassed so many of Katari's features. Her bronzed skin, her curling horns, her…size. Those hands could encircle his entire forearm, and had on more than one occasion. He had witnessed those great thighs straddle an (un)lucky bandit as she plunged her daggers into his chest. And when she strutted around Skyhold in nothing but her leathers, bearing a form so undeniably feminine despite her strength…he was at a loss. Even her name had a foreign ring to it, rolling off the tongue so easily. When he learned its meaning, he thought it suited her well: strong, serious, but still lovely. She was the furthest thing from fragile, and, somehow, that was the most attractive thing about her.

Maker, she was daunting.

Yet, the more time that he spent with the inquisitor, the more battles they fought together, the more conversations that they shared, the more he realized that the pillar of strength he admired had more chips and dents in her than a glance would allow one to see. And he realized, slowly, that those flaws were more important than he assets. They were what made her approachable, what gave him access to those smiles that he learned to covet like small treasures.

Watching out for her in combat, he witnessed her weaknesses as a fighter. He noticed that she favored her right leg – later, he learned that an old wound in her calf still made the muscles spasm now and then. The blind spot she had on her left was revealed while fighting a band of bandits. Katari, preoccupied by a duo of rogues that had vanished, caught a mallet swing intended for Varric, who had managed to avoid the weapon's path, just below one of her horns as the weapon arced back up. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The next swing would have shattered her skull and sent brain matter spraying across Varric's trousers, but Blackwall was quick enough to see that it only dented his shield and sent a ricking tremor through his wrist.

He ordered Varric to get her to safety, but neither the dwarf nor Vivienne could drag the dead weight of their inquisitor more than two steps. One devastating swing after another connected with his shield, and it was all he could do to keep the brute at bay, keep its focus on him instead of the unconscious qunari at his feet, who for the first time seemed strangely small and…vulnerable, while the others dealt with the elusive rogues. Finally, Vivienne's lightning paralyzed their quick feet, two well-aimed arrows pierced their jugulars, and the brute fell soon after them.

Together, they managed to drape their leader's unconscious form over one of the horses and hurry her back to Skyhold, because by then they'd exhausted their medical supplies and she was bleeding from a head wound and showed no sign of rousing.

The next morning, she happened upon him as he was attempting to hammer out the dents in his shield. The way that she slipped inside the barn, her strides slow and small, spoke of nervousness. A first for the bold inquisitor, who, as previously mentioned, preferred to strut about Skyhold. She cleared her throat to announce her presence, as if he could ever fail to notice her, and he raised his eyes from the shield to behold her. Her temple was swathed in bandaging, and she seemed incredibly tired. Fast, subdued breathes flared her nostrils. He wondered, though the thought was silly, if she had run there all the way from the infirmary.

"I was told that this," she gestured toward her head, "would be the least of my problems if not for you."

"Think nothing of it," he said, striking the shield. "You're well?"

She tapped her knuckles against the offended horn, and he barely caught the wince that echoed around her eyes. However, it would be wholly unlike her to speak of her pain. "Nothing's cracked. Just as well, I don't think asymmetry would suit me."

_Anything would suit you._ He held his tongue as the ring of metal against metal cried out once more.

"I think a smith could do a better job with that," she advised.

"I can manage just fine." His hammer nearly fell from his hand when a badly angled strike sent a tremor through his wrist.

She narrowed her eyes, that shyness fleeing her visage. "Your wrist is bothering you," she accused rather than asked.

"It'll pass, my lady." Ah, that time his tongue beat his common sense. "You have more important things to worry about than an old man's joints." He smiled, but she did not.

She opened her mouth, closed it abruptly. She pursed her lips, and he worried that he'd offended her, because that hardness was in her eyes again. She stared at the warped iron, cocked her head to the side just so, stared at it a while longer, nodded her head, and left the barn without a word. Then, she stuck her head back in and said, "Get your wrist looked at by a healer, or I'll be forced to bring Cassandra with me next time I leave. I can't have an injured Warden getting in my way." Her words were stern, but the quirk of her lips betrayed her, and he shook his head with amusement as she disappeared from view once more. He did as she ordered, of course, for he would not, under any circumstances, allow her to venture from Skyhold without him.

Two days later, he found a shining shield of obsidian propped up on the table beside one of his half-whittled projects, emblazoned with the very image he meant to carve into being, the symbol of the Wardens, the gryphon. He discarded the other shield, still battered and misshapen despite his efforts ('tis true, he was no smith), and he took up the gift with awe. She gave thanks with actions rather than words, and he could feel her gratitude across every inch of obsidian.

Her physical weaknesses were those of which any observant enemy could take advantage, and he learned to adjust his own movements, his awareness, to compensate for her limitations, to better protect her. He would never tell her so, of course, for her pride could not handle such coddling.

Conversations shared over tankards of ale in the tavern, late at night when most of the soldiers had retired to bed or inebriated stupor, revealed to him further cracks in her stony façade. When drink had burned her throat and lightened her head, she told him of the person that she wished she was: a woman who knew her place in the world. She was qunari, yet she was not by their standards. Neither was she truly Tal-Vashoth or accepted by them as such, as she had not been the one to reject the qun and leave Par-Vollen, but still she condemned its ideals. She had not been raised under the qun, yet her parents were not Andrastian either and so she had not been raised as one. Even regarding the Valo-kas, she spoke of detachment. There was no body of people to which she felt a sense of belonging, and in turn, the very question of "Who am I?" left her scrambling. The only answer that anyone had for that question was, "The Herald of Andraste," and that answer terrified her more thoroughly than anything else did. She struck down the idea because she did not want to believe it herself, because if she truly was the Herald of Andraste, and she failed in this endeavor, then she failed in being the only thing she was meant to be.

In the end, she would prefer being meaningless.

When she told him of her terror, upon instinct, he took one of her hands in his, and he swore to her that she was not meaningless. Her fingers were callused, but her palm was soft and warm, and that she did not pull away from him pleased him immensely.

Instead, she lied her head down on the bar, one of her horns tipping her head at an odd angle so that she stared down at their joined hands, her thumb barely caressing his knuckles. For once, he was the taller of them, "It must be nice," she said after a while, "knowing who you are." She looked sidelong-up at him, her eyes searching his face for Maker knows what. There was no fogginess in her gaze, and he realized that it was not the ale that loosened her tongue. He was touched by the trust she placed in him to reveal such fear, to bare herself before him, without armor or self-constructed walls of pride to protect herself. "You're a Warden. You're Warden-Constable Blackwall. You said it yourself: you're a promise to protect others, even at the cost of your own life." Something akin to a smile curled her lips. "No matter what happens, you know who you are, what you are, and nothing, no one, can take that away from you." The idea seemed to comfort her, if the way she squeezed his hand was any indication. He was glad, for he could say nothing in response, so thoroughly did his lie lodge itself in his throat and claw upward with the intent of escape. She sat up, raised her tankard, and said, "To…self-discovery." They downed the rest of their ale, and he allowed the drink to wash away thoughts of his shame and folly.

She bore the weight and the fate of the world on her shoulders day after day, and if his lie could bring her some amount of comfort, he would not destroy the illusion that she perceived him to be. Even when he knew that she deserved the truth, when he wanted to believe that she might accept him as the man he used to be, the man he still was deep down inside, when he brought her to the site of the real Blackwall's death and she stared down at his bones, when he knew that he must leave her in order to right the wrongs that he had wrought, he could not bear to tell her that what she thought he was…was only a lie.

Last night, she was soft. She was warm and inviting, self-conscious and unguarded. Her vulnerability was even more beautiful than her strength, and it left him stunned. When he watched her sleep afterward, curled against him, one great arm roped over his chest, clinging to him in such a fiercely innocent way, she seemed at peace. Happy. It was such a rarity to see her free of worry. He'd managed to distract her from time to time, of course, but there was always something to deter her from losing herself completely, some visitor or operation or document that needed her attention and niggled at the back of her mind until she saw to it. Last night, there was nothing but her and him, the warmth of the barn, her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, and the pitter-patter of her heart beating against his ribs. He wanted to hold her forever, protect her from the world that sought to destroy her. It was a silly thought, but he decided that if she belonged anywhere in the world, it was with him.

He knew, then, without doubt, that he loved her. And if he truly loved her, he could no longer deceive her, allow her to give herself to a wretched lie. So, he would leave, he would hang for his crimes, and in doing so, he would be the man that she continually tried to convince him that he was. He would be worthy of her in death, and she would never need to know the shame of discovering his deception. Her pride could not handle such a revelation, he was certain.

Before he left, he kissed her forehead and traced the curve of her horns with his fingers, those strange, exotic horns. He wanted to commit every bit of her to memory, everything that made her Katari Adaar. He wanted the last thing he saw, as he closed his eyes and the noose tightened around his throat, to be the woman he loved.

As he rides farther from Skyhold, with snow, wind, and doubt buffeting him, he hopes that she will believe she loved an honorable man, a Warden finally defeated by the Calling that he tried to keep at bay, who slipped away into the night with the intent on confronting his demons and his mortality in the deep roads. He hopes that her belief in him, and whatever he represented to her, will still provide her strength, when he himself no longer can.


	2. Gossip

This one started when I realized the similarities between Fenris and Blackwall's leaving their woman after schmexy times, and I thought that Varric would note the similarities too. And this all ended up being way more comical than I originally intended, but I like the way it turned out.

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><p>Cole knows when it happens. Out walking the ramparts at night, he is overcome by a torrent of happiness, the likes of which he has not felt in such a long time. He takes a seat on the wall and waits, basking in it, for amidst the hurt and misery of this place, the happiness is a bright light, sparkling with warmth, entrancing and delighting him. He knows its source, but he has not the understanding to turn his senses away from the intimacy in the barn. Peace follows, gentle, content, and satisfied. Then, regret and shame. A sadness to rival the happiness that shone so brightly, though it comes from one heart rather than two, it eclipses the moon and cloaks the stars with grief.<p>

And then appears the silhouette of a man that he has come to know throughout their travels, who carries a dead Warden's name on his shoulders and that of a criminal in his heart and in his past, who the current man hates and fears and locks away, a hated secret that weighs him down along with his guilt. The silhouette creeps from the barn, as though out for a simple midnight stroll, but the horse it leads tells of a distant destination. Cole knows, as the false-Warden slips through Skyhold's gate, that Thom Rainier has abandoned his beloved Inquisitor and all who follow her. It is for his love that he intends to die.

~8~

After it happens, Varric is the first to know. He knows before word of any sort reaches his ears. When the Inquisitor exists her quarters late in the morning, she carries herself in the exact same way that Hawke did so long ago when her own lover jilted her. Hawke had barely made it to his room at the Hanged Man before bursting into tears and stooping over to bawl into his shoulder, and once he made out the words between the tears, he'd wanted to throttle Fenris. The Inquisitor has not been crying, he can tell, but every now and then, her face twists and her voice catches, and he knows that only through force of will has she held her tears at bay.

As Varric manages to wheedle the details bit by bit from the Inquisitor's lips, he compares the two men against one another. At least Fenris had the decency to wait until Hawke woke to leave her. At least he gave Hawke a reason for his departure. Blackwall simply stole out like a thief in the night, leaving only a pathetic note for the woman he had appeared to revere so. Unless it was all an act, his sudden departure makes no sense. And Varric has long understood that when things don't make sense, either the writing is bad or details are being intentionally withheld from the reader. After the Inquisitor wholly tires of his questioning and threatens to toss him from the ramparts if he attempts to make a manuscript out of her problems, he seeks out Nightingale in the hopes of tracking down those withheld details.

~8~

Leliana hears of Blackwall's departure before Varric finds her cloistered up in her usual haunt. Her spy's account and accompanying note, previously missing from her reports, have already set her sights on Val Royeaux. She knows of Mornay, the part that he played in the Callier massacre, but what connection he has to Blackwall she cannot imagine. The exact time of Blackwall's departure is unknown, but the guards that patrolled the ramparts last night confirm that the Warden left Skyhold well before sunrise under the pretense of going out for a simple night's ride. Leliana considers sending two scouts after him, one to continue trailing Blackwall once they catch up with him and the second to return to her with details. Varric argues with her not to pursue that idea, however, and when he whispers the circumstances surrounding Blackwalls departure to her, circumstances that none of her scouts knew, she relents. The Inquisitor should be the one to track him to Val Royeaux.

~8~

Cole is not the first to know the Inquisitor's pain only because he spends most of the morning distracted in the infirmary, and the Inquisitor doesn't find him in the rafters of the Herald's Rest until after Varric has finished his good-natured prying. He does not ask what is wrong because, of course, he knows, her pain washing over him with a ferocity stronger than anything else he has ever before felt from her. Instead, in usual Cole fashion, he informs her with his tumbling poetry that says nothing yet everything in the same breath. For the first time, the Inquisitor tells Cole to shut his mouth, because it really is less than fun when her mind is the one that he is picking apart.

~8~

Sera, intending to sneak up on the Inquisitor and give her a fright, halts on the staircase just below the top floor of the tavern to listen to Cole's chattering. She catches enough to get the general picture; that picture includes hay and it makes her snicker softly to herself. However, she's more concerned with the fact that the Inquisitor is too mopey for some quality roof time following her conversation with the creepy spirit-boy than the reason _why_ she's mopey. That's not to say that she doesn't remember it, rather that she doesn't dwell on it.

She does, however, decide to bake the Inquisitor cookies in the hopes of lifting her spirits. Not pride cookies, never icky, raisin-filled, pride cookies. She even jots down a note to herself in her notebook so that she doesn't forget, and she strikes a deal with Varric to obtain a recipe that he guarantees will bring a smile to the Inquisitor's face. "Are you sure?" Sera asks doubtingly. "She doesn't really smile all that much, even when she's happy."

"Well, she can't frown as much if her mouth is full." The half-shrug Varric gives does nothing to convince her.

She narrows her eyes at the dwarf. "Not frowning ain't smiling."

"I'd say that frowning less is the best that we can hope for right now."

She plops down on the cushions of her bay window. He's right, of course. Damn Broody Beard for going and making the Inquisitor broody, too.

~8~

As Solas settles in his chair and attempts to slip into the Fade, Cole appears beneath some scaffolding across from him. The spirit's agitation practically buzzes about him and interrupts what comfort Solas managed to obtain.

"What's wrong, Cole?" he asks.

Uncertainty is written across his face, as though he doesn't know whether he should respond, or he doesn't know how to do so. Eventually, he reveals that Blackwall has abandoned Skyhold. Abandoned. Not left. Not departed from. Abandoned. The choice of that particular word strikes Solas. Then, wrapped up in the flow of his words, everything pours out. Infatuation, fondness, fervor, fondling, and fodder. Then forsaken.

Solas silently receives the news, and he realizes that Blackwall has abandoned more than Skyhold. The Inquisitor has been abandoned by her champion.

Cole says nothing of Blackwall's reason for leaving, however, for the reason is noble. An attempt to fix past errors and wrongdoings, to fix the hurting of others and oneself, should not be stopped. But in trying to fix the hurt, he has caused that of the Inquisitor. Hers would be ended if he spoke, but then Blackwall's would continue. Thus, Cole is torn between keeping the secret of Thom Rainer and exposing it.

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Solas says, meaning to comfort Cole. "Time heals all wounds."

"Not if the wounds kill you first," Cole whispers. Solas looks away. When he turns back, the spirit-boy has vanished.

Cole's agitation concerning the Inquisitor leaves Solas intrigued. Cole certainly is unlike any other spirit that he has met during his travels through the Fade. But, he believes that the Inquisitor will heal eventually. She is strong enough to weather whatever pain this event brings, he is certain.

~8~

Later in the day, when Sera, already swaying atop a stool in the Herald's Rest, leans over her bottle of choice liquor and cups her hands around Bull's ear, he expects her to point out a redhead on the other side of the room with big tits. She doesn't need the drink to loosen her lips, but it certainly aids in how loudly she hisses her newly-acquired information in his ear, which is loud enough for the bartender to turn away whistling as he cleans a mug.

Instead of replying, he pushes the swift _I told her so_ sitting on the tip of his tongue to the back of his throat, for no good could possibly come from shoving the Inquisitor's ideals back in her face. Her ideals of love and passion clash with those of the qun, not that he blames her for having those ideals. Growing up far from Par-Vollen, raised by Tal-Vashoth, she had almost no other choice but to develop them. Although, if he did take her aside, tell her that this sort of situation would never happen to a true qunari, and suggest that she reevaluate the importance she places in love and passion, she might finally hit him in her rage. She has so much rage inside of her, so much that she holds back for whatever reason he cannot fathom. If she only released it, with a good roar and a good fistfight, she would feel infinitely better. Hers are nice, grand ideals, he admits, but when they have the tendency to end in tears and a metaphorical pain in your chest, there must be merit in forgoing them entirely.

~8~

Cassandra confronts the Inquisitor after she learns of Blackwall's departure, in the hopes that the Inquisitor can shed some light on the situation. She knows that they were…fond of one another, so she believes that the Inquisitor would be privy to his reasons for leaving.  
>The answer she receives is less than satisfactory:<p>

"I don't know. Why should I? Do you think he told me? Because he didn't," the Inquisitor snaps, and she shrugs off any further questions with an excuse of needing to be in the War Room.

When Cassandra discovers the situation for what it truly is while sparring with the Iron Bull, she gasps. The shock of the truth is enough to stop her mid-shield bash with a breathless exclamation of, "What?"

Bull sidesteps her shield and rams into her with his shoulder, sending her to the ground.

"I said," Bull says, as he grasps Cassandra's hand and hauls her to her feet, "Blackwall fucked her and then walked out without so much as a thank-you."

She shakes her head to stop the ringing in her ears and raises her shield once more.

"The moment they had finished?" she asks, the question escaping her mouth before she can stop it. She knows that such matters are truly none of her business, nor are they anyone else's. But this is the Inquisitor! She had no idea that hers and Blackwall's fondness for one another had escalated to such heights. "Where, how did it happen?" The romantic in her has overtaken the collected, serious warrior for the moment, captivated by the sort of drama that permeates her guilty pleasure, her wonderfully smutty novels.

"Well, Cullen's troops needed horses for an outing, so there are some empty stalls in the stable." Bull charges at Cassandra this time, and her feet remain planted in the earth when their shields collide. "If you get my meaning," he adds, smirking unabashedly as he readies himself for the next strike.

"How scandalous!"

"What did you expect? Candles and poetry?"

Cassandra's reply to that is to slam her shield against his with as much force as she can muster. The qunari, however, does not budge an inch despite her efforts.

"I bet he rode her like a horse, too. Good man." There's that smirk again.

She grimaces and makes a blatant noise of disgust. "A good man would not leave."

Bull grunts, but whether it is an agreement, Cassandra cannot tell. She collects herself once more, putting the information away for later, and readies her stance.

~8~

Josephine blushes terribly when she hears Cassandra's piece of "classified information." And then, she feels foolish, oblivious. Of course the Inquisitor is a stunning woman. Of course she had gained the attention of Ser Blackwall. Of course her own smiles had gone unnoticed. Of course. Cassandra asks after her sullen expression, and Josephine rids herself of whatever melancholy has taken hold of her. This is no time for jealousy, and currently the Inquisitor is in no position of which to be jealous.

"Do you know why he left?" Josephine, ever curious, asks.

"I think it was his Calling."

Josephine's hands fly up to her mouth to stifle a gasp. "No!"

To think of Ser Blackwall leaving the Inquisitor with the intent to die alone in the Deep Roads, slipping away while she slept in order to spare her a painful goodbye, oh, the idea is so tragically romantic.

"The Inquisitor must be devastated," Josephine says.

"That's one word for it," Cassandra mutters. "I would steer clear of her for the time being."

"You think she should be alone right now?"

"I know it. Were you in her place, you would want a shoulder to cry on, but that is the last thing she wants."

If she were in the Inquisitor's place, indeed. She realizes the extent to which that thought could be taken, and she blushes again.

~8~

Vivienne only finds out because she overhears the conversation between Cassandra and Josephine as she passes by the ambassador's office. The moment that Vivienne tries to convey her sincerest apologies, and perhaps console the Inquisitor with the fact that the Warden abandoned not only her (really, she is much better off without the cad), but the entire Inquisition as well, the Inquisitor sends her a withering glare, sealing her lips on the matter permanently.

~8~

Cullen, pouring over the War Table, nearly chucks a stone marker at Josephine out of reflex when she barges into the room. She carefully closes and locks the doors behind her, and when she turns to him, she's shifty-eyed and out of breath. "Have you heard?" she asks him.

"Heard what?"

She glances back at the door and makes a show of circling the table. He rarely sees Josephine so bright-eyed other than when she is striking a particularly cunning deal. When she leans impossibly close to him, he fights the urge to lean away, so unnerving is her demeanor. His eyes widen as she whispers her secret so softly in his ear that he barely understands the words.

"Don't tell anyone," she says once she has backed away several paces, respecting his personal space once more.

"Why not?"

"Because the Inquisitor's privacy should be respected."

"But you told me," he points out.

"I needed to tell someone," she exclaims. "This kind of gossip is too outrageous to keep to myself."

"But you expect _me_ to keep it to myself?"

"Of course. You much too serious and noble to slander the Inquisitor's reputation."

"You're her ambassador! You're the last person who should be slandering her reputation!"

She crosses her arms and raises her chin. "I've done nothing of the sort. So long as you keep quiet, all will be well." With that warning, she leaves the room and leaves Cullen to resume his planning, albeit distractedly.

~8~

While there is still light enough from the setting sun, Solas and Cullen play a game of chess beneath the gazebo in the garden. A thing like a bit of gossip should not have captured his attention so utterly, but it has, and Josephine's excitement had infected him so much that he feels that same need to tell someone what he knows. Cullen trusts that the elf would be more discreet about the Inquisitor's business than anyone else would, so he defies the ambassador's order and decides that he will not keep quiet.

For the first time since their game began, a voice joins the soft clicking of stone figures atop the chessboard. "There's a rumor spreading around Skyhold," Cullen says.

Solas does not look up from the chessboard. "What sort of rumor?"

"One that even Josephine could not keep to herself."

"Truly?" Solas raises a brow in disbelief, though he shows no further interest than that.

A nod from the general, which Solas does not see and thus does not react to.

"Well, out with it," Solas eventually says, and Cullen is absolutely thrilled, but he shows no more excitement than the elf does. It would not do to seem overly enthusiastic about such a simple thing as gossip.

"You've heard that Blackwall has left Skyhold, yes?"

"Of course."

"Well, last night, he and the Inquisitor —"

"Oh, that?" Solas asks, his eyes still locked on the chessboard. "Cole already told me."

"Ah."

Nothing more is spoken about the subject, and so it is by virtue of the fact that the Inquisitor's entire inner circle already knows of her predicament rather than Cullen's nobility that the chain of gossip ends with him. His distraction gone, he beats the elf at chess, at least, and wins their rematch as well.

~8~

Dorian is the only person who the Inquisitor actually approaches with the intent of disclosing her troubles. "You look like a woman who's been abandoned in the middle of the night by a regretful lover," Dorian jokes the moment that he spots her ascending the spiral staircase. "And trust me, I've seen enough of those to be an expert."

"Is it that obvious?" she asks, and when he knows that his appraisal is correct, his brows draw low and he bites his bottom lip. He gestures for her to sit beside him on the divan in his little alcove amongst the bookcases.

Once she tells him everything, and she does so without much provocation, he seethes inwardly.

She speaks roughly to him only once, when he suggests that she pursue Blackwall and demand answers from him. Her refusal ends in a pained expression, and he knows that she only speaks roughly because her anger keeps her composed more than it hinders her. Wisely, he accepts her refusal (though immediately he begins hatching a plan that involves just the opposite) and gives her a different sort of advice:

"Have sex," he says.

"I believe that's what I did wrong in the first place," she says, her expression more confused than anything else, which Dorian considers an improvement.

"No, you misunderstand. Have sex with the next man that you see. I don't care if you like him or hate him or even know his name. Trust me, no man will pass up free sex, even with a stranger. And just lose yourself in the throes of pure carnal elation, no emotional strings attached."

"Seriously?"

"I would never joke about such a thing."

For a moment, her expression lightens. It's the first time that she's smiled all day. "You know," she says, her voice carrying a sly edge, "technically, _you're_ the next man I see."

"Oh, you don't want me," he says, almost too quickly. "I'm flattered, surely, but I'm not nearly man enough for a woman of your…caliber," he settles on the word with a quirk of his eyebrows.

The small chuckle that escapes the Inquisitor's lips is genuine.

They talk of things that have nothing to do with romance gone amiss, and when she finally takes her leave, she thanks him for his help. Dorian watches her descend the staircase, his smile sliding from his face, and then he paces his little alcove until he nearly wears a line in the stone. He did not expect to find a friend in the Inquisitor, but he did, and thus he cannot help but feel protective of her. No one, he vows, wounds a woman like that and walks away scot-free.

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><p>Hope you enjoyed :)<p> 


	3. The Argument that Started Everything

Yes, the title is a reference to a sentence in the first chapter. Although, I actually started to write this one-shot before any of the others, so the first chapter really contains a reference to this one. Who cares? Enjoy!

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><p>Katari Adaar. Her name meant, "A weapon that brings death." Though her parents had abandoned the way of the Qun in order to be more than their roles would allow, to give their future child that same opportunity, they'd given her a Qunlat name, and Katari had grown into that name as well as any Qunari whose role had been chosen by the Qun. Running with the Valo-kas, Katari had learned to rely only on herself. It was as though in forsaking the Qun, the mercenaries had also forsaken the very idea of "the whole," each member its own independent unit, working heedlessly of the others. They had completed their jobs successfully, of course, and jokes and stories had been shared around the campfire; however, there had never been a sense of togetherness amongst the other Vashoth and Tal-Vashoth while in battle, almost as though they had been competing against one another for kills. Men and women had held their own alongside one another, bearing scars with pride. Those with scars had failed in combat and suffered the consequences of his or her mistakes without complaint. They had not cried out for help like children or accepted acts of heroism. They had not been weak links in the disconnected mercenary chain. Katari bore many scars, but learning to enlist the shadows as her ally when she found none in flesh had left her less blemished than most of her fellow mercenaries.<p>

Thus, when Sera ventured into one of the many lakes of the Fallow Mire in order to lighten a floating body's pockets, and at least six wasted bodies rose from the depths of the water, Katari instinctively unsheathed her blades and entered the cover of the shadows without a word, leaving her companions to fend for themselves. They were a formidable lot, at least as far as she had witnessed. Sera kept her distance well enough, with all her leaping about, and Solas had a way of freezing foes solid just before they could close in on him, not to mention his barriers would have protected him even if the ice failed. Blackwall, however, she'd barely had the opportunity to gauge in combat. Cassandra usually accompanied her, for although their first meeting was less than pleasant, Katari had come to respect her, and she was talented at keeping the bulk of the opposition away from the more fragile elves; she had also learned to give Katari her space during a fight. But Cassandra had been wounded during their last mission on the Storm Coast and was recuperating at Haven. Not that Katari minded Blackwall, but his suspicion of her wore on her nerves.

She kept to the shadows, flanking each corpse as it stepped clear of the water, while Sera and Solas released a barrage of arrows and spells on those still wading forward. They were holding their own, and she would do the same. She expected nothing less from them, or from herself. So, when she slipped in the mud surrounding the lake, lost her footing and came crashing down directly behind one of those damn corpses, splattering muck against its legs and bringing its attention whirling around to her, she cursed her incompetence.

It was obvious that the creature could see her, the way its undead eyes stared directly at her instead of spinning wildly with an air of confusion. Either her stealth had been broken, the shadows fleeing from her in her time of need (even though the area was composed of hardly anything _except_ shadows), or she was covered in enough mud to render the illusion ineffective. Panic had washed over her so abruptly that she couldn't tell which was the case, and as she tried again and again to regain her footing, her hands and feet digging deeper lines in the mud, all she could think was that she might as well be digging her own grave. She clamped her eyes shut just as the creature brought down its sword with a force that would surely carve a rift in her shoulder. What made her jerk back was not the sting of a blade ripping through her flesh, however, but a loud clang echoing directly in front of her.

Katari opened her eyes, and she blinked them thrice and wiped at them with her muddy hands because she could not believe the sight that they showed her: Blackwall towering over her, his shield braced against the undead's sword. He was so close to her that if she dared lean forward at all she'd be rubbing her face against his leg like a damn cat.

With a roar, he shoved the creature away, giving Katari the time she needed to roll to safety, because she had finished trying to stand up in that _ damn_ mud. Once her boots found purchase, she darted behind the distracted undead and thrust her daggers into its withered shoulders, dragging it to the ground. She plunged her blades into every expanse of flesh they could find, furiously wishing that they were large enough to chop the creature's body into pieces rather than fill it with holes. Once satisfied that the creature was deader than dead could be (although with the undead, exactly how dead was that?) she lowered her daggers, slathered in ochre and mud, and met the eyes of the man who had defended her. He nodded his head in regard and offered a small smile.

How dare he smile, when he had just deprived her of a well-earned scar?

She sneered. Setting her jaw, she sheathed her blades, turned from him, and strode further into the mire.

~8~

Upon returning to Haven, Katari was the very opposite of the light-footed Qunari she prided herself on being. Clouds of snow rose around her furious footfalls, curses bursting beneath her breath at nearly every turn through the encampment. Solas and Sera had smartly decided to leave the Qunari to whether her rage alone, the cause of which they truly could not fathom. The clattering of armor that followed Katari, however, made her aware that not all of her companions were so kind.

"Leave me be," she snapped over her shoulder, gritting her teeth and forcing as much venom into her voice as possible. The tactic worked for a moment, if the way Blackwall hesitated in his steps was any indication. Good. Perhaps if he feared her, he'd be less likely to come near her again.

"Lady Adaar," (Oh, _Lady_ was she? Damn him.), "I couldn't help but notice you've been in a mood since your slip in the bog."

She said nothing. If she said something, it was bound to be entirely insulting and probably racist. Not that she cared for his feelings, but the last rumor that needed circulating was that the Herald wanted to slaughter every human in the world. Complete rubbish, by the way.

Finally, as they neared the stables, she rounded on him. He was following her so closely that he nearly collided with her. Standing at least a head taller than Blackwall, her fists clenched at her sides, she glowered down at him. "I didn't ask for your help," she said.

"You didn't," he agreed with a brief nod, "but it was obvious that you needed it."

"Oh, was it?"

"You _had_ fallen." He strode past her into the barn, leaving the door open, its hinges creaking. Taking that as an invitation to continue the conversation in warmer conditions, Katari looked either way to see if anyone was watching, bit her lip and growled, rolled her eyes, and followed him inside.

"Yes, and as far as I'm concerned," she said, swinging the door shut behind her, "if I fall in battle, then the one who suffers the consequences of that is me." She suddenly felt claustrophobic in the small, sad excuse of a barn. Amongst the bales of hay, presumably for the horses, there was a rickety table, upon which Blackwall rested his helmet, and a cot tucked away into a corner. Nothing but ashes remained in the fireplace.

Blackwall knelt before the hearth with kindling in hand and set about building a fire. "You're daft if you think that," he said, the sound of scraping flint filling the room.

"Why? Because I'm a woman? And you have some blown-up sense of chivalry that prevents you from letting one pay for her mistakes? I'm no damsel in distress that needs rescuing."

The scraping flint stopped abruptly. "Is that why you're upset?" he asked, a hint of amusement ringing the question as he resumed his work.

"I'm sure that you wouldn't be so quick to jump to Bull's defense," she continued. "He's a big boy, right, can handle himself just fine? He can take a few stabs." Bull fought like the Valo-kas, proud of every kill and reveling in the blood that spattered his skin, whether it was his own or an enemy's.

A small flame sputtered into existence. "What're you getting at?" Blackwall asked. He fed the flame until it blossomed, and Katari clenched her fists behind her back, trying to reign in her frustration at his lack of comprehension.

She stomped her foot, rattling the floorboards. "I don't want special treatment!"

"Well, that's a shame," he said, rising to his feet as his gauntlets clattered onto the table with a casual toss, "because it's exactly what you'll get."

"I am just as skilled a fighter as Bull."

"Bull isn't the damn Herald of Andraste."

She crossed her arms. "What does that have to do with _anything?"_

"Everything!" he finally shouted, throwing his sopping gloves on the floor. "You're the one with the mark. Without you, we have no way to close the breach and no way to restore order to this world. In this fight, _you're_ the only one who isn't expendable." He turned away from her and warmed his bare hands before the fire, flexing fingers stiff from the cold. "If you fall, then we all pay. This endeavor has no room for your petty pride."

She pursed her lips and exhaled heavily through her nostrils. It was not an argument that she had expected, but it was a valid one nonetheless. Still, the thought of being guarded, kept safe, far from battle, was sickening. The thick of battle was where she excelled, where she could most effectively contribute to the inquisition. "I'm not going to wait around while everyone else fights my battles for me," she said, her tone decisive but no longer argumentative.

"No, I didn't think you would," he admitted as he ran a hand through his hair, soaked with either rain or sweat (she couldn't tell which it was, but her own hair, tied back as it was, had fallen victim to the rain).

For a moment, she was…concerned about how she must look herself. Her leathers were stiff with caked mud, and her war paint _must_ have smudged and run beyond salvaging. She swiped a hand across her jaw, and her fingers came away stained blue. All the way down to her jaw? Her cheeks flushed, and she was grateful that the man had his back to her.

"It's obvious that Cassandra doesn't protect you as well as she should," he said, his hands unfastening the buckles of his armor, "the way you always come back bloodied up in some way or another. I suppose I'll need to accompany you into the field more often."

"Oh, you will, will you?" she asked, trying to tame the flyaway ringlets that had escaped their bun.

"You can refuse, if you like." He turned to face her again, shrugging out of his shoulder plating, and she snapped her arms down at her sides, embarrassed by her primping. Had she _not_ just been complaining about being treated like a woman? And here she was, acting like one. Disgusting. "You are, after all, in charge." He seemed oblivious to her vain attentions. The breastplate joined the other armor on the table.

She narrowed her eyes. "I feel like you'll still tag along even if I do."

He smirked. "You're very perceptive."

"Just…don't get in my way."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good." She gave a curt nod. "I'm glad we have an understanding." She turned to leave, wanted to venture into the cold atmosphere once more and chill her flushed face, but his voice stopped her:

"Not quite. Before you go, there're two things you need to hear."

She pivoted on her heel, planting her hands on her hips and tilting her head as though to ask, "What now?"

Her impatience seemed to amuse him. "Never mistake my aid in battle as an insult to your skill. I would do the same for any member of my unit," he smirked, "even Bull, big boy that he is. And…" he paused, as though carefully considering his next words, "I doubt that anyone could ever mistake you for a damsel in distress. Even if you full-out swooned, you're too tall to be one."

And there it was, the remaining elephant in the room, the "you're much taller than I expected" remark that everyone and his mother needed to tell her, as if she had lived her entire life unaware of her size. Yes, she was a Qunari, and yes, she was tall.

He averted his eyes and coughed into his hand. "I, um, must have lost my touch. That was meant to be a compliment."

Then, unprepared for, and unaccustomed to, such a comment, Katari knew that no amount of smudged paint could hide the surprise in her widened eyes or the blush that consumed her cheeks and ears.

~8~

Varric nods in approval of what he's written. There are a few rough spots, but for a first draft, it holds definite promise. Every epic adventure needs a good romance to soften the edges of battle, death, and betrayal, and the Inquisitor's ordeal is no exception. Not that this romance ended well, but the emotional roller coaster will leave readers clamoring for more. At least it all began amusingly enough.

"And all of it's true?" he asks.

Sera reclines on the cushions of her bay window, her tongue poking between her teeth as she scrawls a doodle on a roll pf parchment. "Of course," she says, scribbling curly moustaches where Dorian's eyebrows should be. "You think I could make this shite up?"

"I could."

"Yeah, well, I'm not you."

"Then again, I would never write a less-than-successful attempt at seduction."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it seduction," she trails off into giggles. "Lemme see," she says, once she's recovered, one hand grabbing empty air until Varric places a sheaf of freshly-inked parchment between her fingers.

Eventually, she hands them back to him, her eyes squinted accusingly. "I never said she fixed her hair."

"Well," he examines a phrase that he had written down verbatim and then crossed out, "saying, "It was sort of cute how she was nervous and into him, because she was totally into him," isn't exactly good enough."

"Whatever," she grumbles, "I tell stories just fine, thanks very much. Also, what's with all that rubbish at the beginning?"

"Some sort of introduction was necessary. I pieced it together from things she's mentioned now and then. Plus some artistic liberty."

"You mean lies."

He grins. "It's what I do." He stands from the desk, rolling his shoulders and looking out the window. The sun has sunk lower than he realized. Edits may need to way until another day. "I must thank you again for your spying," he says as he tucks away his quill and jar of ink into his coat.

"Not like it was hard." Sera sits up and carefully folds the doodle into a hat, each crease slow and measured. "Arguments are juicy with secrets, and I know how to spot one in the making. Besides, dummies who leave doors open are asking for eavesdroppers."

From one of his pockets, Varric extracts a small scrap of parchment, which he holds out to Sera. "Your payment, my good woman." With greedy fingers, the elf snatches the paper and scans the cookie recipe.

"And these will be good?" she asks, her brow cocked. "They need to be good."

"They'll be as good as you can make them."

She scrunches her nose. "Might make her feel even worse then. I've never baked before."

"Maybe buy some cookies then?"

"Right," she says with a decisive nod. She rises from the cushions, scoops up her notebook by the doorway, and writes _Buy good cookies for Inquisitor_. "Got any coin?"

He holds up his hands, palms forward. "That wasn't part of the deal. I've held up my half of the bargain."

"Half of your half," Sera corrects him, puffing the folded hat into shape. She approaches Varric and tugs the hat down on his head, careful not to rip the parchment. "To be delivered to Josie at once," she orders with extreme gravity, as though her drawing is essential to the success of their ambassador's current negotiations.

He tucks the rough draft into his coat and raises his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Right away," he says, and he about-faces with a seriousness to rival the elf's. For all he knows, it might very well be a vital document that Sera pilfered for her own amusement. He sighs as he makes his way from the Herald's Rest, attracting stares and leaving a trail of laughter behind him. The things he does for a good story.

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><p>So, what's true and what's an author's embellishment? I'll let you decide!<p>

Irony: Line in the Sand got in my way all the time until I finally disabled it.


	4. At the Mercy of Rage

One of Dorian's sources reveals a Venatori agent operating out of Val Royeaux. While Katari wants to avoid the capital of Orlais more than any other place at that moment, Dorian's constant pestering eventually aggravates her enough to convince her that if she doesn't want to end up short one very talented Tevinter mage, her own hands wringing his neck to silence his nagging, she'd better track down that Venatori agent pronto. Why he is so insistent about disposing of this one in particular, he will not say, only that it is extremely important that the agent be dealt with immediately. At dawn, they ride from Skyhold.

Their party happens upon yet another rift (the path is fraught with the damnable shimmers of green light) while journeying to the capital, and when they alight from their mounts, the demons pour forth. Cassandra catches the attention of as many of the demons as she can, while Sera's arrows rain down upon them and Dorian sets the field aflame. Katari leaps amongst the shades, cutting them down one by one so that her companions can focus their attacks on the pride demon flinging electricity through the air, the whips it wields singeing the grass and trees where they strike. A rage demon catches Katari unawares as she flanks a shade, its claws raking blistering burns across her back. The shock of the blow, rather than the pain, nearly sends her daggers skittering across the grass. It…touched her? Nothing ever touches her, nothing serious or by surprise.

For a moment, she forgets, and she whips her head around in search of that gleaming gryphon shield. Polished after each outing, no need letting her "token of appreciation" remain tarnished longer than necessary, he had said. She had laughed.

Then, she stops forgetting, she stops being foolish and sentimental, and she remembers. Gone before she woke, leaving only a penned goodbye to greet her.

The note tucked beneath her smallclothes – crumpled in a fist clenched so tightly that her nails created red crescents in her palm, and then quickly smoothed with a sudden horrified reverence and whispered apologies, its words read and reread until branded into her memory – presses so hard against her bosom that for a moment she cannot breathe.

She had rejected his aid at first, then begrudgingly accepted it as a thing that would happen no matter how much she objected, then expected it whenever she found herself outnumbered, and then relied upon it and the confidence it gave her to know that she was defended far better than any enemy she might face. The knowledge, the oath, that she would be protected allowed her to become reckless, careless.

He's made her weak.

She roars as she slices into the demon's body, embers scattering around her feet, aware of nothing but the flash of her blades and the want, the _need_, to utterly destroy something. She needs to hurt it the way that she's hurting, because the fact that she's hurting at all is laughable and pathetic. Her hands tighten around the grips of her daggers. Faster, her blades need to cut and slash _faster_. The demon lashes out in response, rending her scarf and dragging burns over her throat and face. She hasn't the armor to withstand this assault, the ability to brush off such blows, and she should have withdrawn by now, taken cover in the shadows instead of battling the demon head-on. Sensibility, however, has fled in the presence of rage, and she ignores the sensation of blood dripping down her face.

The tears that spring from her eyes, she swears, are only the result of staring so closely at the embodiment of fire itself, from the burns and cuts writhing in her skin. Katari does not cry. Under any circumstances. Even that one time when her fellow Valo-kas held her down as one pressed a red hot sword to a gash on her shoulder, and she screamed through the bit of leather crushed between her teeth in order to prevent her from swallowing her tongue. The tears that rolled down her bronze cheeks then were nothing more than her body's response to physical pain, and they stung her pride more than the sword did her skin.

This is the same thing, an involuntary reaction to physical pain. Tears are weakness, and she refuses to be weak. She is _not_ crying. The ache within her, a heavy thing that fills her breast like water in her lungs, responds to the lie with a trilling moan that echoes in her ears and vibrates through every strike of metal against molten rock. She screams obscenities and hateful things that she doesn't mean in order to drown out the sound.

Her blows have no effect on the demon. It grows larger, feeding off her rage, lava spilling outward from its core to fill the wounds her daggers inflict. She is _not _crying. She is _not_ —

A bolt of frost whizzes by her head and strikes the demon square in the chest, consuming its body in crackling ice. Her blades send shards of ice soaring through the air, and she cleaves its outstretched arms from its body. Deeper and deeper she hacks, farther and farther the cracks extend, until one final thrust of her daggers shatters the creature, its fractured form tinkling against the ground. Suddenly, the throbbing rage in her breast subsides, the stifling heat vanishing as a breeze washes over her face. She inhales deeply, feeling as though she hasn't breathed in ages, and rubs her fists across her eyes and cheeks, driving lines through the ashes, blood, and war paint that cling to her face. She examines her knuckles. Streaks of white, crimson, and brown mar them, but nothing clear. No tears.

~8~

"My goodness, you're on fire," Dorian exclaims as he extinguishes the last of the fire spreading from one of his glyphs and the party takes status of themselves. Sera picks amongst the corpses for gold and valuables while Cassandra wipes her bloodied sword on the grass. The mage secures one staff in the brace on his back, another held in his hand, and is at Katari's side immediately. "And I mean that quite literally," he clarifies, surprising her when he begins to pat the small flames licking the tattered edges of her scarf. She nudges him away and smothers the remaining flames by herself. "The only one who should ever be flaming is me," he jokes, laughter ringing his words in a way that exudes, _Oh, I'm so very impressed by my wit_, but he sobers as his eyes rake over her wounds. "You really took a beating, didn't you?"

"Hold still," Cassandra says, reaching for one of the poultices dangling from Dorian's belt. "We need to treat those burns immediately." She removes the bottle's cork and brings its mouth to the worst of Katari's wounds.

"Don't touch me," she shouts, shoving the other woman away. Her voice is hoarse, her throat gone sore from screaming.

"But, Inquisitor —"

"No, I don't need your help," she insists, cutting through the air with a dagger. She winces at the audible sob in her voice. She has grown so weak, to display such passion in front of her companions. "I don't need anyone's help." To where has the old, stony-faced Katari fled, she wonders, the one who would rather lose an arm to a corpse's blade than show weakness? She's gone, killed by the man who's abandoned her just as thoroughly.

Sera joins the other two, stuffing creature bits used for research into her satchel, just as their leader moves to hurry away. Katari elbows past the elf, sending several coins flying from her fingers, and rounds an outcropping of rock to lick her wounds in private.

"What's with her?" Sera asks, swinging her bow over her shoulder. "Some earwig crawl up her arse and die?" She sticks out her tongue and shudders.

"Our little Inquisitor is…hurting," Dorian says, trying to convey the Inquisitor's grief as subtly as possible.

"Well, yeah, she got herself all burned. That was dumb."

"No, a different kind of hurt."

"Oh…you mean how Broody Beard went and made her all broody, too," she says far too loudly.

That's Sera. No tact whatsoever.

"If you're done gossiping," Katari shouts from around the rocks, "there's still a Venatori agent at large." She doesn't sound nearly as composed as she'd like. When she shows herself once more, her eyes are regrettably red-rimmed, and a green paste coats her wounds. He wonders if she can even feel her face, with that lovely, tingling effect it has. She mounts Thaddeus, her nuggalope, with enough force to shift the huge beast.

Poor dear, reduced to tears. Vulnerability is a garment that she never meant to wear, Dorian knows, but she learned to wear it all the same, and now she can't bear the wounds that come from the one who made her vulnerable in the first place. He wonders if, once she mends the cracks in her armor, she'll ever be able to take it off again. And she really had made such fine progress. _Damn you, Blackwall,_ he thinks. After mounting his chestnut gelding (no strange beasts for him, please) in near sync with his companions, he ties his extra staff alongside the other anchored to his saddle. One for every element, Katari always insists. His affinity for fire is useless against several creatures, and the Inquisitor never enters the field unprepared. As they set off once more, he hopes that they don't encounter any despair demons along the way to Val Royeaux. There isn't enough chocolate and friendly flirtation in the world to cure their little Inquisitor should that happen.

She shot down his idea of pursuing their runaway Warden, on account of his being able to make his own choices, and if he doesn't want to stick around, then who is she to force him to do otherwise? She's not his nanny, Dorian. He's a grown man, and she's the Inquisitor, and she has more important things to worry about than chasing after someone who…she never finished that thought aloud, but he could hear the tightness in her throat, and he wisely dropped the subject.

Confronted, but undaunted, by the Inquisitor's stubborn refusal to pursue their only lead pointing to Val Royeaux, Dorian may have fed her some false information of a Venatori agent hiding out in the very same city. Should they happen to find Blackwall there, and Dorian shall lead Katari on this wild goose chase until such a meeting occurs, she can take whatever action she likes. If she deigns not to punish Blackwall, then he shall gladly do so in her stead. Whatever happens, the Warden shall be sorry that he dared hurt his friend so terribly.

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><p>I do hope that people are enjoying reading these as much as I enjoy writing them!<p> 


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